All you have is wild and fierce
by EFAW
Summary: If you take away all the memories that make a man, what do you have left? Oneshot.


**Summary:** If you take away all the memories that make a man, what do you have left? Oneshot.

 **Warnings:** Hurt/Comfort. Amnesia. Second Person POV. Travis POV. Non-consensual drug use. Torture. PTSD. Violence. Addiction. Some swearing.

 **Disclaimer:** I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

 **Because every fandom needs at least one hurt/comfort angsty amnesia fic, right?**

 **OOOO**

 **All you have is wild and fierce**

" _There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."_

— _Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss_

 **XXXX**

As it so happens, you're in the armory when the police burst through the doors, so it's a simple matter to slide a gun into your waistband and a few grenades in your pockets. You stand behind the door, listening cautiously, and hear feet pounding past. The others are no doubt rushing to the front, taking up arms and attacking, but that's a damn good way to get yourself shot and you…well, you have no intention of going back into a cage again.

You wait until there's silence, and then you wait a few more minutes after that, and don't emerge until you're certain there's no one in the hall. When you do come out, you move quietly, on light feet that are used to sneaking around, pulling your gun out of your pants as you go.

Your brain screeches at you about loyalty and watching your men's backs. But your brain is a fucked-up piece of shit on a good day, so it doesn't take much to tune the little voice out. Besides, they're not your men, they're Moody's, and knowing Moody, he got the hell out of dodge while his people took bullets for him.

Time for you to do the same.

You're making good progress, and so far you haven't seen any cops. Maybe they just haven't gotten to the back of the building yet. You're thinking that if you can make it to the back door, you'll be in good shape—you can steal a car, head out of town, and vanish like a ghost. Start over somewhere, make a new name and a new life for yourself.

It's a pretty little daydream that shatters the moment three cops round the corner.

Their guns come up. Yours stays down at your side, and you shift so it's concealed behind your thigh. You have no intention of getting shot, and—in theory, at least—they won't shoot an unarmed man even in a room full of cops.

Then again, you're a black man in the middle of a police raid on a gang headquarters. You're almost guaranteed to get shot.

Then something interesting happens. The guy at the front of the trio, a pale blonde guy in a vest and not nearly the amount of tac gear the other two guys have, stares at you. Every ounce of color drains from his face, and his eyes go wide, like a cartoon.

"Travis…?"

It's barely more than a whisper, but it carries even over the noise from the other end of the building. Or maybe it just feels that way because something painful thuds in your chest when the word forms on his lips.

You don't think of it much. Keeping your gun hidden and your free hand out, you let a slow, easy smile cross your face, taking calm steps down the hallway despite the guns trained on you. "Hey, man, how's it going?"

Blondie takes two steps forward, gun dropping. That's his first mistake.

"Travis, what are you—"

Blondie lets you get _way_ too close. That's his second mistake.

Without hesitating, you lash out, the side of your palm impacting solidly with the cop's throat. The gun falls from lax fingers; a shaking hand reaches up, and the cop's knees give out as he chokes on nothing. But the cop doesn't fall; you're there, twisting the man around and wrapping an arm across his throat. Your other hand comes up, the barrel of your gun digging into the cop's temple.

"Drop 'em," you order, all pretense of cheer gone. "Drop 'em or I blow his head off."

The cop wheezes, waving a hand. The S.W.A.T. guys exchange looks, slowly bending to place their guns on the ground.

"Good job, boys," you declare, cheer returning in an instant. "Now if you'd be so kind as to go through that door…" You gesture with your head to a nearby door. When they don't move fast enough, you tighten your grip, and Blondie stops breathing. They hurry to comply after that.

The room is a storage closet. You order the men to cuff themselves to the shelves and toss the keys into the hall. After they comply, you grin, give them a little wave, and lock the door on them. Then you grab Blondie's arm and start dragging him down the hall. "You're gonna be my ticket out of here," you tell the cop.

The other man doesn't say anything, rubbing his throat and still wheezing when he breathes. You'd feel bad about that, except you don't have time for that. Getting out of here before things go any more to hell is your main priority right now.

There's no other opposition on the short walk to the back door. You suppose most of the fighting force has been relegated to the front, where the main bulk of the gang is. You slow near the door, listening, but the sounds from the front cover anything from outside. "Are there cops outside?" you ask, turning to the other man.

The cop is just staring at you, eyes wide in his too-pale face. He's got one hand on his throat and he's not even trying to break away and that is…surprising. Interesting. Totally not what you need right now.

You give the cop a little shake. "Hey! Are there cops out there?"

Blondie blinks into focus, nodding shakily. As though anticipating your next question, he holds up three fingers.

"Three cops?" A shake of the head. "Three cars of cops?" A nod.

Great. Three cars of cops. That's…fantastic.

"Sorry 'bout this," you say, wrapping your arm around the blonde's throat once more. The cop doesn't even struggle. You don't have time to think about that too much. "Hands up and maybe they won't shoot."

Obligingly, the blonde raises his hands in front of him, and you step into the light.

Shouts and guns assault you. You keep your back to the wall and the blonde cop a shield between you and them. "Weapons down!" you holler, visibly pressing your gun into the cop's temple. "Right now!" Slowly, they lower their guns, hands up, and you grin a tight, cold little smile.

That's the nice thing about cops. They won't risk one of their own. Gives you an advantage every single time.

"Walk," you order, dragging Blondie towards the only unmarked car, a really nice black Chrysler 300 that's definitely well-loved. It's sleek and black and shiny and in any other circumstances you would purr over its chassis. Now you're just glad there's something fast you can make your getaway in. The men watch you, just waiting for a chance to get you before you can get away, and the man in your arms continue to not struggle.

It makes you uneasy. You don't understand why the cop isn't trying to get to his people, and you don't like things you don't understand.

As luck would have it, the driver's side is facing the building and all those cops with their guns in easy reach. You checks for keys, cursing when you don't see any in the ignition, but before you can figure out your next plan of attack, Blondie is digging into his pocket and pulling out a key ring.

You stare at the dangling keys. "This your car?" A nod. "Wow, am I lucky or am I lucky?" Keeping the gun where it is, you reach into your pockets. A grenade fits easily into your palm, just barely enough to conceal from the cops. You yank the pin with your teeth; the grenade goes sailing towards one of the cars.

A second grenade follows the first, followed by a third. Men scatter like rats. Right as the first grenade goes up, you unlock the car and climb inside, dragging Blondie after you. "Drive," you order, pressing your gun into the cop's ribs. The second explosion goes off a little too close for comfort. " _Drive!_ "

Blondie peels away as the third car goes up in flames. You glance back, once, but all you can see is fire. You don't look after that.

 **XXXX**

The cop is watching you. Again. He's been doing it for the past ten minutes, little sideways glances that linger long enough to make you uneasy.

"What?" you finally snap, unable to take it any longer. "Is there something on my face?"

The cop flinches, eyes snapping to the road. "No," he rasps. "No, nothing."

"Uh-huh. Just keep driving, sparky." You gesture with the gun, and the cop obediently looks at the road. All fine and dandy, he keeps this up and you all might get out of this alive.

Then you see the cop looking at you again.

" _What?_ "

"You're supposed to be dead!" The words come out entirely unbidden, judging by the look on the blonde's face. The cop clenches the steering wheel and stares out the window, jaw tight.

You have absolutely no idea what this man is talking about.

You snort, leaning back in your seat. "Sorry to disappoint."

"That's not what I—" The cop's eyes dart to you, to the gun in your hands. Back to the road. He looks like he's about to break the steering wheel in half, he's clutching it so tightly.

He swallows. "You're really not Travis?"

"Babe, I will be anyone you want me to be, so long as you keep driving." You glance behind you, but there's no sign of pursuit. Thank god for grenades. "This is exciting. Let's get some beats going!"

You switch on the radio, finding something with a lot of heavy beats and rapping lyrics you can barely make out. The cop makes a small, wounded sound in his throat, but his eyes stay on the road and he doesn't say a word.

 **XXXX**

You make the cop pull over in the back of a Wal-mart parking lot, next to a faded, beat-up sedan that's so dirty it's more grey-brown than black anymore. Which makes it perfect. This is the sort of car that people forget as soon as it's gone.

"Out of the vest," you order, peering around the lot. The cop complies, moving slowly so as not to startle you, which is smart. Don't agitate your kidnapper, always a good plan. You take the vest and shove it in the floorwell, out of sight unless someone is really looking for it.

"You got cuffs?"

A pair of shiny silver bracelets is produced. You gesture. "Put 'em on. Behind the back, don't try anything." Wordlessly, Blondie affixes the cuffs, awkwardly turning to you can check them. They're tight enough the cop can't get out, but loose enough the guy won't lose his hands. Good enough.

"Perfect!" Cheerfully, you tuck the gun under your shirt and climb out of the cop's car. "Now we're going to go for a little ride."

Blondie is staring at you again when you come around to the driver's side. He still looks like he's just seen a ghost. Or like he's just been sucker-punched. Maybe both.

"Why are you keeping me alive?" Blondie asks, and he asks it like he's expecting something, gaze roaming your face. But you don't know what he might be expecting, can't even begin to guess.

You merely wave a hand. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a killer. You want me to shoot you, you're gonna need to give me a lot more cause than just being in my way."

For some reason, this makes Blondie relax marginally, the lines easing around his eyes. And, like, what are you even supposed to do with that?

Nothing. The answer is you'll do nothing with that, because there's nothing you _can_ do. There will be plenty of time to figure out the mystery of the blonde cop later, when you're holed up somewhere and you don't have to worry that every cop of every street corner is about to come down on your head.

You motion with the gun. "Up." Carefully, Blondie eases out of the car, head automatically swinging to see if there are any witnesses. There aren't, of course. You're more cautious than that.

"What are—"

Before he can even finish the sentence, your hand whips out, the heavy butt of the gun thudding into the base of his skull. The cop collapses, limp, and you catch him before he hits the ground. Just like before, in the warehouse. A little hit and he falls down.

You ease him back into the seat, studying him. Studying the lines in his face and the curve of his jaw and the fall of his hair. You stare at this man and try to spark _something_ in your mind, because this man acts like he knows you and you want to know if you know _him_.

But all there is inside of you is a vague sense of disquiet, like fingers tickling at the back of your brain.

You shake your head and get to work. It's a matter of moments to jimmy open the door; the sedan is old enough that you easily disable the alarm before it starts screeching. Pop open the steering column and bam, ready to go. You put your hands on the wheel.

And you pause.

You stare at the blonde in the other car, studying his face. You don't think anything. You don't let yourself _think_ anything. You simply feel.

After a moment, moving on instincts you don't entirely understand, you climb out. Carefully, you haul him out of the Chrysler and into the battered sedan. You even strap him in, nice and secure so he won't fly through the window if you get into a crash.

You _should_ leave him, stuff him in the trunk of the Chrysler or simply let him rest in the other car until he wakes and finds help. You don't understand why you're taking him with you. It would be so much easier, more expedient to go on without him.

You don't think about it much. It's not a memory, but there's _something,_ and this is the first time someone has stirred something inside of you.

You're not going to just give that up.

 **XXXX**

The safe house is a piece of crap, really, but it's solid and it has locks on the doors and food in the cupboards. It's also one of the safe houses that only a few guys know about, and it doesn't look like anyone's been here yet. There're half a dozen boxes of ammo under the bed—you grab the relevant ones—and a hundred bucks in the coffee tin in the kitchen, which, hell, it's better than you started out with.

You haul the cop to the bedroom and cuff him to the headboard, leaving him to sleep off your little love tap while you secure the perimeter. Like most gang hideouts, this is in a neighborhood where no one asks too many questions or gets too interested in other people's affairs. You should be safe enough.

You know better than to rely on _should be's_.

You check the locks four times, the windows three, and prowl the edges of the tiny space for half an hour before you force yourself to still. Pacing won't help anything. The building is secure, you're as safe as you can be. Now you need to _plan_.

There's been no plan so far, beyond _get away_ and _go to ground_. Beneath that is the overriding instinct that thrums through your body, that surges in your bones and pulses with every beat of your heart. _Survive. Survive. Survive._ No matter what, you must survive, until—

Until what? You don't know. That part of yourself has been stripped away, by drugs or trauma or pain.

All you have are instincts. You follow them because there's nothing else.

You raid the safe house, pulling out anything that might be useful. You lay it all out on the ratty table in the tiny kitchen, going over what you have and what you need and how easily you can get it.

You listen for sounds from the bedroom, and, hearing nothing but silence, you sit and plan.

 **XXXX**

The plan is flimsy, but it's better than nothing. You sit on a rickety folding chair and tap your fingers on your thigh and wait.

Just as you've decided to check whether you've accidentally sent your hostage into a coma, he jerks awake with a gasp, blinking in disorientation. You don't move, not just yet. Last thing you need to do is send the cop into a fit. If he starts panicking and screaming, you'll just have to knock him out again. Which would be annoying, and you don't want to set a precedence where this is a thing, because then that means you have to lug his unconscious body around everywhere, and that would just be a pain in the ass.

You see his eyes flick around the room, registering the unfamiliarity. He tries to sit up, noticing for the first time the cuffs around his wrists, threaded through the headboard. He winces as the pain in his skull hits.

Just as the panic is about to rise, you lean forward. Slowly, not enough to startle, but enough that he catches movement in the corner of his eye and his head whips around.

As soon as he sees you, he relaxes, relief overriding panic and flooding his face. "Travis."

"You keep saying that," you murmur softly, a warning wrapped in gentle admonishment. He keeps looking for _him_ , whoever _he_ is, and if he keeps looking inside of you he's going to be disappointed.

You aren't _him_ , this Travis. You aren't…

It doesn't matter what you aren't. What matters is what you are and what you can be, and that's what you focus on.

His face shutters closed, wary and cautious. He heard the warning in your words, and he's smart, whoever this cop is. "Who are you, then?" he asks, sitting up as best he can. "If you aren't Travis?"

You lean back, suddenly all bright cheer and smiles. It makes the cop flinch a little. "My friends call me Lobo. Well. They used to. Then _your_ friends came and there was a shootout, so I really don't know if I have any friends left." You cross your legs, hands hooked over your knee. "And who are _you_?"

"Wes." Something sparks in his eyes, and he lifts his chin. "Detective Wesley Mitchell, Robbery-Homicide at the LAPD."

He waits, watching you, waiting for...something. Anything.

You don't let your smile falter. "That's quite a mouthful, Detective Wesley Mitchell."

Whatever he was waiting for doesn't come, and expectation slides off his face like water down a pane of glass. His shoulders drop, and he slumps back against the bed, and suddenly he looks small, _defeated_ , the way he looked when he first saw you in the warehouse.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Told you, detective. I'm not a killer."

"Then what do you want from me?" His hands twist. You glance up, but he's not trying to get out of the cuffs—he's merely twisting them together, rubbing them over and around. It sends something fluttering along the back of your brain, but nothing emerges, so you let it pass.

"Haven't quite decided on that. But I figured I'd give you the peace of mind that I'm _not_ going to ruthlessly murder you tonight, so you might as well get some sleep."

"How kind of you," he responds dryly, and the sarcasm is so delightfully unexpected it startles a laugh from your lips.

You rise. "I think I like you, Detective Wesley Mitchell. I'm sure I'll figure some use for you that means you don't end up dead in a ditch." You move towards the door, grinning over your shoulder. "Get some sleep, man. You'll need it. Long day tomorrow."

"What are we doing?"

You shrug, flipping off the lights. "We're gonna make it up as we go. It's gonna be _fun."_

You leave him, alone in the dark, but you're not bothered in the slightest.

You have every confidence he won't try to escape.

 **XXXX**

" _Tell me your name."_

There are voices in your head. Whispers in your ears, shadows in the corners of your eyes. They flutter at the edges, like they're trying to be seen, but when you reach for them, they dance out of your grasp. They haunt you during the day, but they attack at night, when you're defenseless, when you don't have the world to distract you.

You sleep with one hand on a knife and a gun under your pillow, but it doesn't matter because the demons are inside your skull.

" _Tell me your name."_

It's a dream, or maybe a memory, of a man and a voice and a hand full of needles and knives, and you flinch. You burrow into the couch and you cringe away from the thoughts, and you ache in every part and all you can think is _survive, survive, survive._

You think that you'll never survive if he gets what he wants, so you can't tell him a word.

" _Tell me your name."_

Cries fall off your lips, anguish and agony blending as one, and it's a litany in your head. _Survive. Survive. Whatever happens, you must survive._

Survive for what, you don't know, but it thrums inside you, sings in your blood and hums in your bones until it's the music you dance to. Everything you do is for one purpose and one purpose alone.

To survive.

" _Tell me your name."_

It's a dream, or maybe a memory, and you know you'll never survive if you tell him what he wants to know. So you swallow the words and bury them in screams, and every time the knife cuts into your flesh or the syringe slides into your veins, you bury it all a little bit more.

" _Tell me your name."_

Even if you wanted to, you can't.

 **XXXX**

You burst awake with your knife in one and your gun in the other. Your trigger is on the finger; you're not a killer, but you'd kill, right this instant. It's probably a good thing you're alone right now.

The light is dim, and the shadows stretch tendrils towards you, trying to drag you under. You clamber to your feet and flip on the lights, throwing everything in stark relief. Monsters become furniture, and shadows are no longer wicked men from your dreams.

It still takes too long for you to calm down, for your heart to stop racing and your head to stop pounding. Your flingers are clenched, trembling, and you're not sure how you ever convince yourself to drop your knife. You have to pry your fingers off the gun.

You sink into the couch, head in your hands, and you gasp, huge, ragged breaths, fighting for air like you're underwater.

You shake, and you shake, and there's nothing to distract you.

 **XXXX**

You think he's asleep, and you're about to quietly leave. You're a lot of things, but you're not so heartless that you'd wake a man just because you had a nightmare.

But then he turns his head and looks at you, and, well, if he's already awake then there's no reason _not_ to go in, right? So you flip on the light and take a seat while he's blinking stars out of his eyes.

"Couldn't sleep?" you ask, propping your feet on the edge of the bed.

He eyes your feet pointedly. You get the hint; you just ignore it. This is your (gang's) bed, you can damn well put your feet on the covers if you want.

He's the one who gives in first, leaning back with a sigh. "It's not exactly the Ritz," he says, jangling the cuffs keeping him to the bed. The dry wit is enough to make the corner of your mouth twist up slightly, and you think in other circumstances, you would like this cop quite a lot.

His eyes shift to you, and the question comes right back to you. "What about you? Couldn't sleep either?"

Oh, you could sleep. You can always sleep. It's staying asleep that's the problem. It's getting a good night's rest without visions and monsters haunting you. _Sleeping_ is never the problem.

 _Dreaming_ is the problem.

"Tell me a bedtime story," you demand, leaning back in the chair. It's deflection, pure and simple. You're the one in control here. You don't have to talk about any damn thing you don't want to.

His eyes widen, and he sputters. "I—what? Sorry, _what?_ " You get a tiny, vindictive sort of amusement at throwing him so completely off balance.

You settle in your chair, cross your hands over your stomach like you're relaxing for the long haul. "Tell me a story about Travis."

His gaze sharpens, and he studies you, like if he looks long and hard enough he can parse out your motivation. Or maybe he's just looking for Travis again. Well, won't he be disappointed.

You reach out and nudge the side of his leg with your toe. "Come on. Story time."

He blinks, looking away, and when he swallows, you're distracted by the mottled bruising on his neck. _You_ did that, you turned his skin purple and black, and it bothers you more than you'd like to admit.

You look away first.

He clears his throat. "Okay. Bedtime story. Um…once upon a time, there was this cop."

He tells you a story about a man, a reckless, foolhardy man who didn't care half as much about himself as he did about other people. A womanizing charmer who could flirt and seduce his way through half a precinct, but always kept everyone at arm's length no matter how close he would get physically. A childish, impulsive, intelligent man whose greatest weapon was his smile.

He tells you a story, and you can't help feeling uncomfortable the longer he speaks. There's too much in his words that resonates with you, and there's a part of you that wonders if maybe he's not so crazy after all. Maybe his Travis is…

But no. His Travis is gentle, and funny, and kind to people unless they've earned his wrath. Detective Travis Marks is a hero, and _you_ …

Well. You're a lot of things. You're not a killer, but you're not a hero, either.

Even if you'd been Travis, once upon a time, you've been broken and reshaped into something else. You don't know that you could be the person Wes is describing ever again. He's looking for a ghost, and he should just give up now.

You don't think he's going to give up. You recognize stubbornness when you see it.

"What happened?" you ask when Wes falters. "How did he die?"

Wes shifts, the chains around his wrists rattling. "You're not dead."

"Uh-huh. How did Travis die?" It's a reminder, gentle but firm. You're not Travis. You might not ever be Travis again. He should stop looking.

He won't, you know he won't, but if you remind him enough maybe he'll stop calling you by a dead man's name. Maybe he'll stop looking at you with those eyes, searching for someone who doesn't exist anymore.

(You say these things like this will be a long-term situation, like you're always going to drag him around after you. You're not, of course. It's only a matter of time before you dump him to make your getaway. You're not sure where these thoughts are coming from, and you don't quite know what to make of them, so you simply don't think about them.)

"Wes," you prod when he doesn't speak. "How did Travis die?"

The detective closes his eyes, face scrunched up in pain, and he swallows hard.

"His partner was…um…injured. Shot in the shoulder. And while he was out of commission, Travis decided he'd help Narcotics out on one of their cases. They were short-handed, and Travis used to be in Narco, so he knew how things worked. It was only supposed to be temporary, just until his partner was back on his feet."

"Let me guess." You purse your lips like you're thinking through a really difficult puzzle. "Something went wrong?"

Wes chuckles sourly. "You could say that. He went undercover in this gang, the Bloodvipers."

 _A blood red snake winding around his arm, and when he holds the syringe up to the light it's like the snake is coiling, ready to strike—_

You flinch, on your feet so suddenly the chair jerks back six inches. Wes is staring at you, eyes wide, and you—your heart races and your knife is in your hand again. You don't even remember drawing it.

Fuck. You hate it when this happens.

Wes swallows, tentatively questions, "Travis?" He makes a move, tries to sit up, but the cuffs keep him down.

Slowly, you regain your seat. "It's nothing." He doesn't buy it; disbelief is written all over his face. You don't really care. The inner workings of your brain are none of his business. "Finish the story." Just to punctuate how perfectly fine you are, you plop your feet back on the edge of the bed.

(If your muscles are still trembling, tensed and ready to fight, well, you're not about to let that show.)

(You don't put your knife away.)

The cop swallows again, licks his lips. "Right. Um…so Travis…Travis went missing. He didn't check in, and when they went to find out what happened to him, it was like he'd disappeared off the face of the earth. None of the gang members gave anything up. There were rumors and theories about what happened, but there was no evidence. The leading theory was that the Vipers figured out he was a cop and whisked him away to…well, I'm sure you know what those types do to undercover cops."

You don't so much as blink. You do know. It's not exactly something you'd wish on someone else, but these types of people aren't the kind to forgive and forget.

Wes sighs, leaning against the headboard like he's exhausted by more than just this day. "They said he was probably dead. We all searched, of course, but a month after Travis vanished, the Bloodvipers were pretty much wiped out by Sun Dogs. After that, there was really no one left to question. Two months passed, then three, and there was no sign of him, no phone calls or anything. We sent bulletins out, but no hospitals reported an injured man matching the description, no morgues had John Does that matched. He was just _gone._ " He stares up at the ceiling, eyes far away. "They said he was dead," he mumbles, more to himself than you.

The pain in his voice makes you shift uncomfortably. Maybe you shouldn't have gotten him talking after all.

He's looking at you, when you glance up once more. He's looking at you like he's searching for something, searching for another man with your face. There's a touch of hope in his expression—maybe this is all just a trick, and you'll grin and laugh and admit you're Travis after all.

But the Travis he knows is dead. If he's inside of you, then that man is gone, and Wes should stop looking.

You rise, and his gaze follows you. In the doorway you pause, but you don't look back.

"Get some sleep," you order, as gently as possible. "Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."

Before he can say anything you vanish through the doorway, away from those searching, probing eyes.

 **XXXX**

If a man if the sum total of his experiences, then you might as well be a newborn babe. You emerged full-grown from concrete walls and locked doors without name or history, and you were birthed into a new life.

There are things you know. You know how to disassemble a gun and reassemble it in under a minute, and you can fire at a target without ever missing. You know how to pick locks, and hotwire cars, and get into places people don't want you to go. You know how to hurt people.

You know how to lie. How to put on a mask and smile, how to charm and flirt and talk your way out of a situation. You know how to convince the world you're fine so no one digs any deeper, no one sees the truth underneath, and the truth is that you're broken into so many pieces you don't think you can ever be fixed again.

You had no name, so they called you Lobo, because you were a wolf who could convince the sheep you were one of them, and they'd walk right into your jaws.

You're not made completely of jagged edges and claws. You have gentleness in your fingers, especially around children, and when the other members of your gang were hurt you would itch to take care of them (you never did—Lobo has teeth and no one gets close, and you're never going to let anyone get close enough to hurt you again. But the feeling was _there,_ and that has to count for something).

But the moments of gentleness are few and far between, and all you've known is that you're made of steel and fire and blood.

And now Wes is telling you stories of a man who was a dog—loyal and kind and protective, and you can't help but wonder. Was Travis just a wolf pretending to be tame, or did something break inside of you along the way?

Because you've never been a dog, and you're not sure you'd know how to fake it even if you wanted to.

 **XXXX**

You don't sleep much. Nightmares lurk in the corners of your eyes and voices murmur questions in your ears, and when you close your eyes you're vulnerable, exposed, so you end up heading out early, when the sun is barely peeking over the horizon. You make a few stops, wander a few more blocks to clear your head, and when you return to the house you feel downright chipper.

"Wakey wakey, Wes!" you sing-song cheerfully, tossing a lump of clothes at the cop in the bed. He starts awake with a muffled curse, flailing against the restraints and whipping his head around for a sign of the threat. You're more amused than you probably should be.

"Up, up, up," you chirp, bending over to undo the cuffs. You skip out of reach before he can get any bright ideas. "Got lots to do, so we gotta get going."

Wes stares at you for a long minute, blank-faced and groggy. He looks like he got about five more minutes of sleep than you did—there are dark bags under his eyes and his pale skin is sallow with exhaustion. In the clear light of day, the bruises on his throat are sharper than ever, bright purple and black, and you shift your gaze away. He doesn't seem to notice.

Slowly, his eyes drop down to the bundle of clothes in his lap. He sits up, absently rubbing his wrists—they're reddened and chafing a little, and you feel that tiny twinge of _gentleness_ in your chest, that little urge that says _fix it_. You make a mental note to find some antibiotics or bandages or something. Not, you tell yourself sternly, because you _care_ , but because it's a lot easier to haul around a hostage if he's not in pain and complaining.

Not that Wes has complained much at all, about _anything_ , really, and his desperate need to find _Travis_ again seems to outweigh his own comfort, but the principle is sound.

The blonde's brows furrow as he looks through the bundle of cloth. Too-big jeans and a faded t-shirt and a flannel shirt to go on top, just because you can't really imagine Wes in flannel and you think it'd be funny as hell. You even found a cap for him to wear, to complete the redneck farmer look.

The crease in his brow deepens. "Tell me these aren't stolen," he mumbles, words a little thick with sleep or exhaustion, you're not sure.

You grin. "Nope. Got them from the Laundromat down the street."

His eyes shoot up to yours, horror etched on his face. "These are _someone else's clothes?_ " and his voice squeaks a little. You personally don't see what the big deal is, but he acts like it's a travesty to the highest degree, and his hands are wringing together. You don't like it. You're not sure why.

"They're clean. I pulled them out of the dryer," you tell him, as reassuringly as you can. It's important to reassure him, for the same reason you're going to get him something for his wrists later—a calm, content hostage is so much easier to deal with. "People really shouldn't leave their clothes unattended, you know?"

Some of the horrified panic leaves his face. Wes looks down at the clothes again, picking at one flannel sleeve. "My clothes aren't good enough?"

"You don't blend, babe. So you either put on those clothes, or I can leave a tip for the cops after I leave. I'm sure they'll come pick you up in, oh, an hour, maybe two."

He stares at you another long minute, and this time there's no confusion or grogginess in his eyes. His jaw tightens, and he starts shrugging out of his clothes.

You back out of the doorway. "I'll set up breakfast."

He's not going anywhere.

 **XXXX**

Wes wanders out in the borrowed clothes just as you finish setting up breakfast, and it's just as hilarious as you thought it would be. The man was just not made for flannel. Maybe if he wore jeans that fit, he could pull off denim, but not in those. The overall effect is ridiculous, made even moreso by the disgruntled look on the blonde's face.

"You couldn't find any other clothing at all?" he grouses, picking at the sleeves.

You roll your eyes. "You look beautiful, babe. Sit down and eat, already."

Wes flinches, or maybe you only think he does because he turns his disgusted face from the clothes to the breakfast on the table. "Fast food? That's all?"

"Hey, you're my hostage here, I don't think you get to complain that much."

Wes's gaze goes to the gun beside your hand, and you watch his face shutter closed. You wonder if he forgot, if for a minute he thought he was talking to Travis.

This is just getting more and more troublesome. You should dump him as soon as you can and make your getaway.

You don't know why you haven't yet. An entire night of soul-searching revealed nothing. For now, unless this gets in the way of your escape, you'll just keep going as it is. That plan has worked so far.

Slowly, the cop sits in the other chair and picks up his plastic fork. He pokes at the rubbery pancakes, the look on his face suggesting he'd rather be chewing glass. But there aren't any other options, and he's smart enough to see it, so he starts eating.

You inhale your food, because food is something you need to take when it comes to you. You never know when you'll get another meal. Wes only eats about half of his breakfast before giving up, and you eat the remains of that too. Wes just watches you, rubbing absently at his wrists.

"So what's the plan?" he finally asks, once you've finished your food and dumped the Styrofoam containers in the trash.

You get up, toss him the antibiotic cream and a roll of gauze you found in a half-full first aid kit. There's surprise on his face, but he doesn't question it.

You turn the chair, straddling it and folding your arms on the back. Your gun is back in your hand. You just feel more comfortable armed—no one can hurt you if you can hurt them first.

"What happens next," you repeat, watching him spread the cream on his wrists. "Well, I guess that depends on you."

He pauses, looking up, face wary but eyes glinting with just a touch of hope. "What do you mean?"

You sigh, propping your chin on your gun-less hand. "I don't suppose you'll just let me walk away, will you?"

His face hardens, turns stubborn. "No, _Travis,_ I'm not going to just let you walk away." The name is a jab, sharp and pointed, but it just makes you roll your eyes.

"Yeah, thought not. So here are my options. I can kill you. But let's face it, if I didn't kill you yesterday, I'm probably not gonna kill you today. I could keep dragging you around—hence the clothes—and as long as you make yourself useful and don't try to contact the cops, that could go on indefinitely. But that's a pain in the ass. _Or_ —and this is my personal favorite—I could knock you out, handcuff you to the bed, and bolt." You smile insincerely. "I'll make sure the cops know you're here."

He frowns pensively. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Will you let me go?" You lean forward, studying him, staring him down. "If I disappeared, would you let me go?"

He's a smart little cookie, you'll give him that. It only takes him a second to understand what you mean, and his face goes back to that stubbornness. "Absolutely not. You're _alive_ , Travis. I'm not going to just let you walk away and vanish."

That's what you thought. The man reeks of desperation and hope. He'd walk the ends of the earth to find Travis, and if he thinks he found it in you, he'd never stop. You could disappear into the winds, but that would just prolong the chase.

You drop your gaze, finger running down the trigger guard of your gun. Shooting him would _so_ be the easier option. "What will it take to convince you he's dead?" you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

"A lot more than you've given me."

"My word isn't enough?"

Wes scoffs. "I only believed Travis half the time even when he did remember everything. I'm not inclined to believe you _more_ now that you remember _less._ "

"But you trust me." You lift the gun, point it right between his eyes. He doesn't even flinch. Points to him. "You'd trust me with your life."

"It's not like I haven't done it before," he says, meeting your eyes dead on. You could pull the trigger right now, and you think his eyes wouldn't change until the bullet tore through his skull.

The unwavering faith disturbs you. Just who was this man to Travis? What was Travis to him? And after everything you've put him through in the past day, how can he still believe you're him?

You wonder what Travis means to him, that he'd go this far for a stranger with the same face.

You sigh, lower the gun. "Whatever. I was afraid of that. You just reek of stubbornness." You stand, tuck the gun into your jeans, under your shirt. "Guess I have to take you with me after all."

He thinks he's found Travis. You'll never be rid of him now, unless you kill him, and it's going to take a lot more than annoyance for you to shoot him.

You ignore his badly-concealed delight at the prospect and head for the living room. "Get ready. We leave in fifteen minutes."

 **XXXX**

You left the gang headquarters with your gun, a handful of grenades, a hostage, and twelve bucks in your pocket. You found a hundred bucks at the safe house, and Wes has thirty-five dollars in his wallet. Minus what you spent on food, you have not nearly enough to make a decent escape.

Options are limited. You could go to any of the other safe houses, see if there's any money there, but it's not worth the risk. Any survivors of the raid would have gone to those places first, cleaning them all out, and even if the places were untouched, there's no guarantee there'd be any money in the first place. Besides, there's a chance the cops could be staking out any of those places, waiting for more guys to come strolling in. Last thing you need is to be arrested hauling one of their own after you.

Another choice is to go to one of Moody's contacts and beg a loan, but that idea's almost as absurd as going to a safe house. By now, the word has spread—everyone who's anyone knows Moody's been taken out. No one's gonna give you a thing.

Definitely limits your options, but you have a plan.

You direct Wes, and he follows, maneuvering the car through narrow alleys and side streets. (He stopped asking questions after the first ten minutes, when you refused to say anything except "Take a left in three lights," or, "Straight until you get to the ugly wall mural, you can't miss it.") You keep your eyes peeled, and when you spot what you're looking for, you tell him to stop. He parks in front of a fire hydrant—if he's hoping to catch the eye of a patrolman and get help, he's sorely mistaken. Cops don't care about this neighborhood.

"What's the plan?" he asks.

Before he can protest, you whip out the cuffs and lock him to the steering wheel. He makes an outraged protest, and you just grin. "Sorry, babe, it's necessary." Last thing you need is him sneaking off to call someone who will haul you away. Or worse, rushing in because of misplaced heroics and ruining your plan. You know what you're doing, and you don't need him dragging you down.

You pull your shirt over your gun, easy enough to reach but hidden from sight, and you do your best to rumple your shirt. "You're going to stay here," you say, spitting into your hand. You run it through your hair, making it stick up every which way, pointing with your other hand. "I'm going into that building there."

You're not sure if the disgust on his face is for the spitting or the ragged tenement building you're pointing out. The place looks like it's about to fall over, boarded up windows and pieces fallen off the exterior. It looks condemned.

"You're going in _there?_ " Wes is dubious, and annoyed, and clearly not liking any plan that has you going off without him. " _Why?_ "

"Because _that_ ," you inform him, "is one of the drug dens for the Seventh Street gang. Which is a ridiculous name, we're nowhere near 7th."

Wes makes a little sound, almost like a scoff. You wonder if that was something Travis would have said.

You wonder why you care.

"There'll be money and weapons inside," you continue with barely a pause, rolling up your sleeves. "After that, we'll be able to start our new life." You flash him a cheesy grin at the comment, expecting him to fluster or get even more annoyed.

He's not even listening anymore, staring at your arms, looking shaky and pale. You follow his gaze down, wincing at the track marks in your skin, dozens of marks that bring back flashes of pain and cages and a terrible, animal fear. It still gets you, even after all this time.

He swallows, grip tightening convulsively on the wheel. "That's…"

You smile, and this time there's nothing there that reaches your eyes. "Those are my battle scars."

You climb out of the car before he can say anything else.

 **XXXX**

The need is always there, roiling through your blood on tiny little streams of lightning, cravings that pulse and surge in tidal waves of desire. You've had days where you hardly notice it's there and days where it's all you can do to keep from clawing your veins open and pouring the drug directly into your blood, but there's not a day goes by that you don't think about it, want it, need it. It's a terrible sort of torture, constant and unrelenting, and sometimes you wonder why you don't just give in, make the agony cease and just float away on waves of pleasure.

But then that little voice will thrum inside your skull, _survive, survive, survive_ , a bone-deep chant that gives you something to focus on. You can't survive at the end of a syringe.

Most days, you can push the need aside, busy your hands and your mind so you hardly notice it's there. Sometimes, when it gets too much, you drown yourself in booze and cigarettes and willing flesh, creating lightning and pleasure another way to try and distract yourself, if only for a second. And it works. In almost six months, you haven't touched a drop, no matter how tempted you've been.

You're clean, but the need is always there, and for the first time in months you think about it, focus on it. Draw it to the surface, until your hands are shaking and your breathing is ragged and—oh god, you forgot how bad it could be, how much it hurts. Forgot the _need_ , desperate and clawing at your insides until you want to scream.

But you need it, need the craving to be running through you if you're going to pull this off. You're not a good enough actor to pretend to be a junkie; you need to actually _be_ a junkie, if only for a few minutes.

Get in. Get the stuff. Get out.

 _Survive_.

Easy as pie.

 **XXXX**

 _The man smiles. After everything, that smile makes you cringe. It's the look he gets when he's about to do something really nasty. As he moves closer you flinch away, trying to burrow into the chair. No more, no more, please—_

" _Don't worry," he says, and he picks up a syringe. "This won't hurt a bit."_

You stagger up the steps, pound weakly on the door. You can't stop shaking, and—oh god, you _need_ —

The door creaks open, and a guy wearing colors peers at you. "Whadya want?"

"I-I heard—they say you can get s-stuff here." You have to clutch the crooked railing for support, and it's not all feigned. "Good stuff. I need—"

There's an ache in your blood and you _need_.

The banger looks you up and down, a sneer on his face. "Not open. Get lost." He starts to shut the door.

"Wait!" The desperation in your voice, that's not altogether fake either. It's enough to make him pause. You fumble your meager cash out of your pocket. "I can pay. I can—I can pay!"

His eyes linger on the little roll of green, and you watch the struggle. Greed eventually wins.

He opens the door wide. "Come in, my friend."

 _He's right. It doesn't hurt a bit. Just a tiny prick—a nothing wound, compared to what they've put you through—and then—_

 _Oh, and then. You feel like you've never known pleasure, like you forgot what it could be, washed away by the endless agony, but this—A wave of euphoria picks you up, carries you high, and you're soaring, flying higher and higher and it's amazing, you'd live here forever if you could, in this place with no pain._

 _For a moment, nothing can touch you._

The banger leads you into the building which, though condemned from the outside, is actually quite well-kept inside. You stagger down the hallway, walking a tightrope thin line between control and desperation. You are stronger than this. You are not the addiction.

 _Survive_ , at any cost, and you can't do that at the end of a needle.

The banger opens the door at the end of the hall.

 _The man smirks, a cruel, cold thing, but you're flying so high you barely notice. "Good," he says, "Good. Tell me what I want to know and I'll give you more."_

 _You'd do anything to get more, to feel like this. You make a sound, maybe an acknowledgement, maybe words, you don't know, you don't really care. To fly even higher, the thought alone—_

There's only two other guys in the back room. Three guys total—that's nothing.

You were forged in the fires of pain and crawled out of the ashes wrapped in unbreakable steel. You have survived torture and temptation and have created yourself from the ground up. Three men with guns can't hurt you.

The guy who answered the door crosses the room, turns his back for one second too long.

That's when you strike.

" _Tell me your name."_

 _The same question, over and over and again and again, and even flying so high you don't have an answer. The pain comes back, and you thought you'd gotten used to it, but you hadn't. The pleasure makes the pain stand out even more, harsh dark lines sweeping through the colorful euphoria._

 _And then the drug starts to wear off, and oh, coming back down is_

 _agony_

The strong survive, and the weak get eaten. It's the law of the jungle. The pack thins the herd of the weak and the sick, the elderly and the young, leaving the strong to fight another day.

These guys are just kids playing at being tough, and you are a wolf. There's no contest.

The first guy goes down with just one punch, out cold before he hits the ground. You leap across the room, tackling the second guy into a wall. He slumps down, dazed and glassy-eyed, and you whirl, bringing your gun around to point at the last man.

He's got his gun out, but his hands are shaking. Your hands, despite the adrenaline and the fierce, desperate need running through your veins, are rock steady. You are a wolf, and he's a calf who hasn't learned to stay with the herd.

He lowers the gun, outmatched but not stupid. "Take what you want," he babbles, hands out in front of him. "Just take what you want and _go_." His buddy by the wall groans softly, and the kid's eyes dart from you to his friend to the gun in your hand. He swallows.

"Where's the money?" you demand.

He flinches. "In, uh, in the safe." He gestures to the wall, at an ugly picture of a boat.

You gesture with the gun. "Open it."

He scoots to the picture, pulls it aside to reveal the safe. You watch him carefully, but he doesn't make any funny moves, just dials the combination and pulls the door open. He backs away then, towards the desk.

"Good," you coo, moving towards the safe, and when he reaches for whatever weapon he's got hidden under the desk, you punch him, too, knock him out so he's slumped in the chair. The kid by the wall groans again, but he doesn't move, so you ignore him.

There's money in the safe, which you expected. You take a couple of bundles and stuff them down your pants. No need to take it all and bring the wrath of the gang down on your head. There're a couple of guns in there too, which you also take, because it's always good to be armed and prepared for anything.

And there's heroin, too, a dozen tiny bags of powder on the bottom shelf. The sight makes you freeze, sends fire and ice racing through your chest and you almost double over with the force of your need. You haven't touched it in months but _god,_ it's right _there._ You could take just a few bags and no one would ever know, no one could stop you. It's not like you're surviving _for_ anything, anyway, just muddling through one day to the next. You could just float away.

Your fingertips brush plastic before you can stop yourself, and your hands are shaking.

" _Please," you whimper, far beyond dignity, beyond pride. "Please, give it to me." You're shaking in your bonds, barely notice the pain of your wounds from the agony rushing through your veins, crippling need that has you curling in your chair. "Please."_

 _The man just smirks and taunts you with a syringe. "Tell me what I want to know, and you can have all you want."_

 _You're at the point where you'd say anything, do anything, whatever he wanted if it will get you another shot of that euphoria. Anything he wants, if it means the torment of coming down will stop. That's the point, you think, in some far corner of your mind that hasn't been consumed by the drug. But then that part is swept away by another wave of agonizing need, and you sag in your bonds and sob._

 _If you knew anything, you'd be spilling your soul, but you don't, so you can't, and it burns._

" _Please," you beg, but the man just smiles and says, "Tell me what I want to know."_

You recoil like you've been burned, shaking so hard your teeth chatter together. You're about three seconds from throwing up; you taste bile in your throat and swallow hard to keep your gorge.

The little packets of powder stare at you from across the room, and the need burns.

 _Get your shit together_ , you scold yourself, clenching your fists. You take one step backwards, keeping your eyes on the safe as though the baggies will leap out and bite you if you turn away. _You're stronger than this. Keep it together._

You take another step, and another. Counterintuitively, the ache just seems to get stronger the farther you go. Distance doesn't make the heart grow fonder—it just hurts.

You close your eyes, take a breath. " _Survive_ ," you whisper to yourself, the one thing that's kept you going all this time. _Survive_ , and you can't survive at the end of a needle.

 _The man smiles, and holds up a syringe. "Don't worry. This won't hurt a bit."_

Walking away, leaving the drugs behind, is one of the hardest things you've ever done.

 **XXXX**

Wes is waiting in the car when you come out. Not that you expected him anywhere else. He's desperate, clinging to a memory only he sees in your face. He's a leech, clinging to you, and the only way to get him to let go is…

Well, you don't actually know how to get leeches off, but it's probably painful.

 _More trouble than he's worth_ , you think, watching him peer at the building. Even from across the street his worried concern is visible, face tight and hands gripping the wheel. For the hundredth time you wonder why you didn't just dump him when you had the chance. It would have made things so much easier, you could have been a state away by now if you hadn't brought him with you.

There's something about this man. You can't kill him and you can't get rid of him.

It's starting to piss you off.

You're watching him, so you see the way his eyes widen, mouth opening in a wordless cry of alarm, and that's the only warning you get. But it's the only warning you need—you spin on your heel, pull out your gun, and shoot the banger in the leg. The kid goes down with a scream, his own gun clattering on the steps, and staring down at him, you feel…nothing. He's nothing to you, just an obstacle that meant you harm. It was self-defense, really. There's no reason at all to feel bad.

You imagine doing the same to Wes, and something in your chest twists so fiercely you stumble back a step.

What the _fuck_ is it about that man?

You slide into the passenger seat, slam the door shut, and ignore the blank shock on his face. "Drive."

Wes opens his mouth, but maybe he reconsiders, or maybe the look on your face keeps him from blurting anything. He just closes his mouth and starts the car.

You can't stop shaking. You stare at your hands, like maybe if you glare at them hard enough they'll submit and lie still. It doesn't work, of course; the need burns too strong, and wow, that was kind of a dumb thing to do. Necessary, at the time, but still plenty fucking dumb.

You're so out of it, it takes you a minute to realize he's staring at you. _Again._ You thought he'd gotten it out of his system yesterday. Unfortunately for him, you're not much more inclined to deal with this shit today than you were yesterday.

" _What?_ "

He coasts to a stop at a red light, and he glances at you from the corner of his eye. "Nothing. It's just…" He shrugs. "So this is what you're like when you're not pretending to be normal, huh?"

You think it's supposed to be teasing, his words are light but his face is serious, so you're not honestly sure. But you are so beyond this right now, and you snap a little.

"I am not _pretending_ to be _anything_ ," you shout, clenching your fists. At least now you can say your hands are trembling in anger. "This is all there _is!_ This is there's ever been!Why can't you fucking understand that? _There's nothing but me!"_

He studies you calmly, like if he just looks hard enough he can see right through you. A part of you is afraid he might be able to.

"Yeah," he murmurs softly, more to himself than to you, "I'm starting to get that."

You're suddenly tired, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep. The anger, the adrenaline, it all flows out of you like a popped balloon. You slump against the door, staring dully out the window. "Just drive."

The light turns green. After a moment, he does.

You close your eyes.

 **XXXX**

The man is waiting in the room. The man is always waiting, with his cold, dead eyes and his sharp shark-tooth smile and his trays of needles and knives. You know every inch of that room by now, every scratched tile and scuff on the wall, you spend every second in this room even when you're not here, in flashbacks and nightmares that make you wake clawing at the air.

You're so tired.

"Kill me," you beg as they deposit you in the chair, "I don't know anything. Just kill me." You're beyond dignity, beyond pride. You just want this to be over.

The man turns and smiles _that_ smile and says, "Why would I kill you? We're just getting started." And that's when you realize he doesn't want anything from you. He knows you have nothing to give.

This isn't about information at all.

You're going to die in this little room at the hands of this sadist, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

He reaches for the straps on the chair. He doesn't think you're going to fight, and on another day, he'd be right. You gave up a long time ago.

On another day, there wouldn't be a rival gang bursting in.

You don't know that's what happening, of course, not at first. All you know is suddenly the air is filled with explosions and the sound of gunfire, and—

Fire surges in your chest, a volcano of emotion and energy, and it turns out you haven't given up after all. You just needed a chance, and here it is.

The man turns, distracted just for a moment, but a moment is all you need. You kick out, hitting the side of his knee, and his leg crumples. He didn't even get one strap on—you leap out of the chair and grab the tray from the cart, sending knives scattering to the floor. No needles today, you note absently, and you think that's probably a good thing. It would just distract you.

The man groans, and you loom over him, tray in hand.

For the first time, his composure cracks, and you see fear. Not so tough when the prey is fighting back, huh?

"Please," he stammers, "Please, don't…"

You smile, a shark's flat grin, and raise the tray above your head. "We're just getting started."

You bring the tray down. You bring it down again. And again. And again, and again, and again, over and over, endless days of torture and fear and pain bursting out of you, until you lose yourself in the rhythm, in the rage, until it's white noise in your head and a continuous, agonized howl in your chest.

You could get lost, you think, in the anger, let it sweep you aside and dash you on the rocks of your jagged memories. But now that you're awake, there's something there, a thrum, a pulse, steady and unrelenting, pounding in the back of your mind.

Survive. Survive. You must survive.

It's the first thing you've ever known that came from within, and you cling to it.

There's a gunshot, tearing through the noise in your skull and silencing the thrum. The blood-stained tray drops to the ground with a clatter; you dive to the floor, fingers wrapping around the hilt of a fallen knife.

There are two bodies in the doorway. One of them lays on the floor, with a blood-red snake winding around his forearm, a pool of blood spreading from his prone body. The other stands there with a smoking gun, studying you with intense, microscopic scrutiny.

"Well, well," he drawls, the words thick and slow, like honey and molasses and oil, "Aren't you a wild thing."

You snarl and brandish the knife, and the corner of his mouth curls up. "I see." His eyes roam the room, from the scattered tools to the chair in the middle, to the bloody, ragged body on the floor. There's a coldness in his eyes, but it's a different kind of coldness to the torturer. This man is more ruthless, but he's not a sadist. "I see," he says again, slow and smooth, and he slowly lowers the gun.

His other hand comes up, palm extended. "My name is Moody. I can take you out of here," he offers. "You can come with me, and nothing will ever touch you without your permission again."

He has a tattoo on his arm, a snarling dog against a sun edged in sharp points. So different from the bloody snakes the men in this place wear.

He'll take you out of here, and no one will ever touch you again. It's the only offer you've got, and you don't have anything else to try.

Slowly, you rise to your feet, and you take a step forward.

 **XXXX**

You wake as you always do: violently, with a weapon in hand, and Wes almost loses his head.

"Jesus, Travis!" He leaps back, frantically clutching his throat. "Where the hell were you keeping that?" He pulls his hand away, looks for blood that isn't there because he's quicker than he looks and you didn't _actually_ cut him.

You clutch your knife a little tighter and stare at him, breath coming in a harsh rasp. "Don't touch me."

Wes hesitates, studying you in a way that makes you feel like a goddamn bug under a microscope. That look that says he's trying to see right through you. It makes you feel naked, _exposed_ —vulnerable.

You shift, putting the knife between you and him, and you feel a little better. Maybe. Not much. "Don't fucking _touch_ me."

He shuffles on his feet, like he can't quite decide between backing up a step or coming over to your side. "You looked like you were having a nightmare. I just…wanted to help."

You clench your teeth, glare at him. "I don't need your fucking help, I've done _fine_ on my own."

His jaw just out mulishly, and there's a stubborn gleam in his eye that manages to look pained at the same time. "You shouldn't have to."

For a minute, all you can do is stare at this man who gets under your skin like no one else can. Who acts like he _cares_.

For a fleeting half second, you wish you could be Travis, if it means having someone like Wes on your side.

(Stupid. Stupid to wish, stupid to dream. The real world is a battle for survival, and letting your guard down is a good way to get dead.)

Your breathing isn't as harsh now, and your heart is calming. You'll be fine, just like every other time you wake. It was just this time, seeing a figure standing over you, with blood and fear and pain so fresh in your memories—

"Where are we?" As distractions go, it's a piss-poor one, but at the same time, it's a valid question. The last thing you remember was the car.

(You're not even going to bother asking how he got out of the cuffs. What's more important is where you are and why he _stayed_.)

Wes gingerly perches on the foot of the bed, tense like he's about to bolt the second you show you're uncomfortable. You're not sure what's more disconcerting—that he's taking such care, or that you're mildly appreciative of it. You squash _that_ down like a bug. The more attached you get, the harder it'll be to walk away.

"It's one of those cheap motels that doesn't ask questions and has cockroaches in the bathroom," Wes says, drawing your attention again. "You looked…well, to put it bluntly, you looked like shit in the car. I thought stopping was a good idea."

You can finally unclench your fingers enough to release your knife. Yay! You flex your fingers a few times, easing the stiffness out of your joints. "Huh. Would have thought the place would be swarming with cops the second you had a chance to call someone."

Wes actually looks wounded. "I wouldn't do that."

"Right. Where the fuck is my gun?" You are definitely not wearing it, you're missing the distinct shape and feel of a firearm on your person, and your knife is fine—fuck, you took down a guy with a surgical tray once, you can do hell with a knife—but there's a reassuring solidity to a gun that not even a blade has.

"Wes," you repeat. "Where's my gun?"

The blonde's lips tighten, but he reaches beneath the ridiculous flannel and holds out your gun. The second it hits your hand, things slot into place—the tightness in your chest eases, and the world stops feeling so insubstantial.

(It's always better like this, when you have something between you and the world. Nothing will ever touch you again if you don't let it.)

"I don't get you, man," you grumble, quickly taking the gun apart and putting it back together again, checking for damage or missing pieces. You wouldn't put it past him to take the firing pin or something.

But all the pieces are there, and Wes is watching you again, eyes deep and intent like the bottom of the sea.

"You're not going to shoot me, Travis," he murmurs, and there's the conviction of entire worlds behind his words.

Huh. You study him, your gaze roaming his face, searching for the answers to all the questions you have. He stares steadily back, calm and unafraid.

You just don't get it. Why is he doing all of this?

You slide the gun into your waistband, run your hand over your face. Okay. Okay, time to regroup, figure out a plan, and get a move on. You can't stay around this shitty motel forever.

You climb to your feet. He watches you, steady and unyielding, and—goddammit, you can't plan _anything_ until you figure him out. You need to know what you're going to do with him before you can create a plan.

You stop in front of him, staring down. He meets your gaze, unflinching, waiting for your next move. It's funny; you feel like you should be able to read his face, but his expression is completely inscrutable. Like looking at a mirror, nothing there but a reflection.

You reach out, cup your hand around the back of his neck. Slowly, you lean in, following instincts you don't understand, waiting for—you don't know, a cue, maybe. A signal for you to stop, to keep going.

But there's nothing. His face stays politely blank, and those fathomless eyes only draw you closer.

You hesitate just a second before you lean in that last inch and seal your mouth over his.

There's a spark, a tiny, miniscule thing, and the pieces slot into place. _This_ makes sense. All this time you couldn't figure out why he was doing all of this, but now… Well, you've seen people do stupider things for the ones they love.

He sighs against your lips and slowly pulls back. "We weren't…" He licks his lips, looks down. "It wasn't like that between us."

You blink, pull back. "Really?" A pause. "Are you sure?"

A wry little laugh falls off his tongue. "I think I would know better than you."

"Huh." You really though you had something there, but you don't think he's lying. What would be the point? He'd have nothing to gain by saying you weren't lovers if you had been. "Then what are you? Because you, Wesley Mitchell, are awfully invested in a man you're not sleeping with."

He looks tired, all of a sudden, the smudges under his eyes matching the mottled bruising on his throat. "Does it matter?"

Your temper flares, flashing through you like a wildfire. " _Yes_ , dammit, it fucking matters! You—"

He gets under your skin, makes you do things, _feel_ things that you can't explain. And maybe it's just that he (claims he) knew you from _before_ , but you don't think that's it. At least, that's not _all_ of it. There's something else, something he's not explaining, and you need to know what it is. You need to figure out who he is to you before you can do anything about him.

You grab him by the collar, haul him close. "Who the hell _are_ you?"

There's a challenge in his eyes, a stubborn jut to his jaw. "You tell me."

You've had enough. He's getting inside your head and you're so fucking _tired_ of it. Before today you had enough to worry about with just yourself, and now you've got _him_ adding all of his drama to the situation, calling you _Travis_ but it's not your name, Travis is _dead_ and you're not but he's not _looking_ at you and you are _done_. You're so fucking done.

With a snarl, you lash out, knuckles colliding with his jaw. The shirt tears in your hands, gaping open as he falls back onto the bed, and he lands with a little grunt on his elbows. His collarbone and part of his shoulder is exposed by the ripped cloth—your eyes go to the tear, and your hands reach out, pulling more of the shirt away.

On his shoulder is a puckered starburst scar. Like something a bullet would leave behind.

"The partner," you whisper disbelievingly, things falling into place with dizzying speed. "You're the partner. The one who got shot and left him to die."

He bats your hands away and sits up. "You're not dead, Travis."

You ignore him. "Why the hell didn't you just _say_ that, right from the start?"

There's a ferocity in his gaze now, wiping away any trace of exhaustion. "When was I supposed to tell you, huh? When you kidnapped me at gunpoint? Or how about when you cold-cocked me? Would that have been a good time?"

"There were plenty of opportunities after." You rake your hands through your hair, not sure if you're more confused or less. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted to see if you remembered me."

"Newsflash, man, I don't remember _anything_."

Wes laughs, a dry, brittle thing, and crosses his arms. "Yeah, you know, I kind of clued in that something was wrong when you punched me in the throat. I figured I'd see where things went. And when I realized you had amnesia…" He shrugs. "I wanted to see how much you remembered."

The denial is sharp and hot on your tongue, but you bite it back. He sees it on your face anyway, and temper flashes in his eyes to match your own.

"You don't realize it, Travis, but you _do_ remember me. It's why you haven't shot me, why you didn't leave me behind. You took care of me!" He holds up his wrists, bandaged in gauze and antiseptic. A happy hostage is a compliant hostage, but what if it was something more? What if…

He leans forward, all eager intent. "You don't remember me, Travis, but you _know_ me."

"Will you stop _calling_ me that?" You back away, pace the room. Every time he says it, it's like someone is scraping their nails down your spine. It feels _wrong_.

He rises to his feet, glaring at you. "It's _your name._ "

"It's a dead man's name, not mine. So just _stop_ already." You're restless, twitchy, and you don't know if it's because he's pissing you off or a residual effect from your nightmare or something else entirely. You just want to get out of this motel room and _go_ , just keep going until the anxiety fades and you stop feeling like people are chasing you.

Right. _That's_ likely now that Detective Wes is on your trail.

You pause at the window, twitching the curtains to peer out at the lot. Habit, really, except maybe part of the problem is you weren't conscious when you were brought here, so you don't know your surroundings. You don't like not knowing your surroundings. Don't like not being prepared.

It's a typical crappy motel with a tiny rectangular lot and rooms on three sides. Nothing out of the ordinary. The cheap piece of junk you stole is sitting out front, and there are a few other cars nearby, including a slightly-nicer-than-the-others green car with two women sitting on the hood. They're just talking, the blonde one waving her hands and the brunette one laughing, but something about them sets you on edge.

You drop the curtain and pull your gun out. Wes hasn't moved an inch—makes it real easy to aim at him. "I thought you said you didn't call anyone."

The annoyed anger drops just a fraction, a second of hesitation that tells you everything you need to know. "Well, I mean, _technically_ I didn't say that."

Panic constricts your throat, makes your chest go tight. You search for exits. The window is right next to the door, in full view of the parking lot, but maybe there's a window in the bathroom—

"Hey, wait, Travis." Wes holds up his hands, placating, takes a step forward. "It's not what you think."

"Stay the fuck away from me." You scuttle around the edge of the room, keeping him in sight, gun trained on him. He turns to follow your movements, takes another step towards you.

"They're friends, Travis, they're here to help."

"Stop fucking _calling_ me that!"

"I _won't_." Another step, slowly and cautious, like he's approaching a wild, wounded thing. (That's not so far from the truth.) "It is your _name_. You may not remember it, but I do, and despite what you say, I'm not going to stop saying it like you're dead. You're _not_. You're here, in front of me, and I refuse to let that go."

You can feel sweat beading up on your forehead, your palms. You feel trapped, cornered. The gun wavers. "I won't go back in a cage. I'll die before I go back in a cage."

"No one's going to put you in a cage." Yet another step, closing the distance between you. Your gun snaps back up.

"Seriously, stay the fuck away."

"Travis, I just want to help." He's almost close enough, just a couple feet away, and you don't dare take your eyes off him to check the bathroom window. He could spring at you, tackle you, wrest the gun away and leave you defenseless. Leave you _vulnerable_ , and then he'll take advantage, cart you off and tie you down, needles and knives and tiled rooms with drains in the floor.

"Travis," he says, beseeching, almost begging. "Please. Let me help you."

Another step and he's close enough he could take the gun, if he just reached out. You should shoot him, send a bullet into his chest and end this here and now.

You can't, you _can't_. Your finger twitches but you just can't follow through.

You press against the wall, hand shaking just enough to be noticeable. "I swear to god, you move one more inch and I'll—!"

" _Travis! You move one more inch, I swear to god I'll shoot!"_

 _You turn, and he's standing there, his gun in his hands and heartbreak in his eyes. There are thirty other people in the room, but all you can focus on is him, him and his gun and the wildfire of emotion storming through you; anger and grief and betrayal and—relief._

 _For just a split second, you feel relieved._

The memory passes, leaving you numb and shaken, blinking afterimages out of your eyes. Your first real memory, the first thing from _before_ you woke in the hands of the Bloodvipers, and now you kind of just want to drink until it's all gone away.

"Travis?" Wes asks, hesitant. You wonder what's on your face to make him sound like that.

"You pointed your gun at me." Your voice sounds distant when you say it, almost dreamy. Still caught up in the memory. If _that's_ real, then maybe the rest of what he's said…but if they were partners, why would he do that? That doesn't make _sense_. _None of this_ makes any fucking sense. "Why'd you pull your gun on me?"

His eyes widen. "You remember that?" There's a catch in his voice, like he's just been suckerpunched. "You actually remember that?"

It's funny. He sounds oddly happy about the revelation.

You refocus on the here and now, on the enemy(?) in front of you. "What the _hell_ do you want, Detective?"

"It's not like that." His hands come up, wrapping around yours. You could yank away, break his grip and—but your limbs won't move. "I swear," he murmurs, "I just want to help. And if you won't let me, then you're going to have to shoot me, because I'm not letting you go again."

You can't seem to get your body to do _anything_. All you can do is tremble in his grasp and wonder how everything went pear-shaped. Two days ago you knew exactly what your life was, and now everything has turned upside-down and you don't know anything anymore.

"Travis," he says, voice hardly more than a whisper, "Aren't you tired of running?"

"I—"

 _Yes._ You're exhausted, down to your very soul. It wears at you, the fear, the lack of trust, always being on edge. There's nothing for you to fall back on, so you just keep moving forward, one foot in front of the other, but there's a difference between _living_ and _surviving_ and you only know how to do one.

You've been running so long you just don't know how to stop.

"Travis," he whispers, so close and you're drowning in his eyes, "Let me help you."

You exhale, close your eyes. You surrender the gun.

You surrender.

 **XXXX**

The women leap off the car as you emerge, striding across the parking lot. You know the moment they recognize you, because they both stop dead in their tracks, looking like they've just seen a ghost. It's the face Wes was wearing, back in that warehouse raid.

(Just a day ago. So much has changed in only a day.)

"Oh my god," the blonde says, mouth gaping in shock.

The brunette takes a tiny step forward. "Travis?" she asks, small and hesitant, like she can't quite believe her eyes.

You don't feel like smiling, but it seems like the thing to do, so you muster up a grin that doesn't mean anything and say, "You're really hot for a cop."

Her shoulders drop, and a grin tugs at the corners of her mouth, easing some of the brittle edges in her voice. "Yup. That's Travis alright." She reaches out, stopping when you shy away from her touch. "Come on," she coaxes, "Let me take you to the car."

You go, because what else can you do?

Behind you, you hear the blonde tell Wes, "You look ridiculous."

"Yeah." Wes huffs a dry sort of chuckle. When you glance back, though, his face is twisted up like he's about to cry, and he slumps against the blonde's shoulder. "He was right here, Kate," he chokes out, like he's holding back tears, "This whole time, he was right here."

The blonde murmurs something you can't hear, wraps her hand around his neck and supports him as he trembles against her. You bite your tongue and look away. Too much emotion that cuts too deeply, and you don't want any of it.

"Come on," the brunette murmurs, opening the door for you. You slide into the back of the green car without a word, fingers running reassuringly over the knife in your pocket. Wes took your gun, and you let him, but as long as you've got your knife, you're alright.

The brunette pauses in the open doorway, mouth opening and closing a few times before she can manage to get the words out. "It's good to have you back," she finally says.

"Travis is dead," you tell her bluntly. "I'm not him."

Her hand tightens on the doorframe, and she opens her mouth again, but there's no good response to that. She eventually closes the door and goes over to Wes and the blonde cop.

You exhale slowly, tilt your head back, and stare out the window, waiting for them to take you away.

 **XXXX**

The hospital room is nice enough, you suppose. It's a decent size with a single bed and a TV on one wall and a tiny little bathroom in the corner. The uniformed cop at the door is a bit nonstandard, but it's good they're staying on their toes.

"Oh, don't be stupid, he's not here for you," Wes had sniped when you (quite graciously, you felt) praised him for his caution. "I mean, he _is_ , of course. He's here for your protection, not to make sure you don't escape."

"I can protect myself," you'd pointed out. "Just give me back my knife." You'd been forced to give up the knife when you got here, and you feel naked without it.

Wes gave you an exasperated look. "You can't have a knife in the hospital."

"No, it's okay, I'll hide it under my pillow and no one will know."

"Absolutely not." Wes had rolled his eyes, somewhere between annoyed and amused. "It's alright, Travis. You're safe here, so just try to relax, okay?"

Easy for him to say. He's not the one with a guard at his door and a distinct lack of weapons to defend himself with.

 _He's there for your protection_ , you tell yourself, trying to ease the restless nervousness in your veins. _This is not a cage. Everything is okay._

Say it enough and you might even start to believe it.

A knock on the door pulls you out of your thoughts. A woman stands in the doorway, watching you the way Wes does—like she can see right through you. Something twitches in the back of your mind, something that makes you want to recoil away from her.

"Hello," she says in a British accent. "May I come in?"

"Why not?" You sit up, studying her as she closes the door behind her and trying to pretend you're not as unnerved as you feel. "Let me guess. You're someone else I'm supposed to know?"

According to Wes, you know Kate and Amy, the two women from the motel parking lot, and you met Captain Sutton, your old boss. Those meetings all left you feeling vaguely uncomfortable and defensive, because they were all looking for a reaction you simply didn't have to give.

So far, the only one you've had any feelings about is Wes, but this woman is a coming in a distant second.

She smiles gently, pulling up a chair. "I'm Dr. Emma Ryan, and yes, we have met. And you are?"

You smile right back, bland and polite. "My friends call me Lobo."

"I see." She tilts her head, studying your face. "And what do you call yourself?"

Your smile turns sharp and full of teeth. "Ah. You're a _shrink_." That makes sense, explains the unease she sparks. You've had enough people digging around in your head, you don't need anyone else. You lean back, hands casual in your lap, ignoring the way the hair on the back of your neck bristles. "Gonna dig up all my memories, doc? Gonna _fix_ me?"

"I am here to help you," she says, "nothing more."

"Right." You scoff, fingers digging into the thin blanket. "And when it doesn't work?"

"What do you mean?"

"Travis is dead." Not even a flicker of her perfect composure—either she was briefed on you before she came in, or she's just that good. You're betting it's the former. "I keep saying that, and people keep not believing me. So what happens when it doesn't work and you don't get Travis back?"

She leans forward, hands in her lap. You get the feeling she'd be taking notes on all the interesting ways you're fucked up, if she had a pen and paper. "I am not your enemy," she says, voice ringing with intensity. "No one here is your enemy. We wish to help, however that aid may be."

She says it so fervently, so sincerely, that you almost believe her.

 **XXXX**

She doesn't close the door completely, so you hear Wes ambush her almost as soon as she leaves the room.

"How is he?" Wes demands. "What do you think?"

If you rise on your elbows and crane your neck, you can see through the crack in the door without leaving your bed. You can't see Dr. Ryan, but Wes—Wes is clear as day. He's changed out of the stolen clothing, into a sleek black suit and a white shirt. Despite the sharp ironed creases in the pants, he still manages to look rumpled and exhausted and seconds away from falling over.

Dr. Ryan takes a breath. "Well, he's charming, witty, evasive, and very good at deflecting questions away from himself. His personality is certainly intact, if a bit sharper around the edges."

Wes rakes his hand through his hair and huffs a dry laugh, which, you suspect, was the point.

"But what about his memory?" His face matches his voice: frantic, worried, and just this side of hysterical. "What happened? How did he lose it? Can you fix it?"

Another slow breath from the doctor. "The brain is a very tricky thing, Wes. The amnesia could be a result of trauma, or repression, or even some kind of dissociative fugue. For all I know he was hit in the head. It's really impossible to say after one conversation."

"But can you _fix_ him?" Emphatic, now, desperate. A man floundering, not knowing which way to go.

"That's up to him." You gotta give her credit; Dr. Ryan has got 'calm and soothing' down to a tee. "I'll do what I can, of course, but you of all people know therapy only works if the recipient _wants_ to be helped." There's a long pause, heavy with meaning you can't see, and Wes drops his gaze down and away. It's probably something you'd understand if you remembered, you decide.

"How are you, Wes?" she finally asks.

Wes shifts, face closing off. "I'm fine."

"You've been going non-stop for two days. Have you even left the hospital?"

"I'm fine." Wes runs his hands down his shirt, trying to primp himself away from her questions. "Alex brought me some clothes, and Kate and Amy brought me dinner. I'm fine."

"Wes—"

"I'm not leaving, Doctor." His face is resolute, determined, the immovable object refusing to yield. "I won't leave him again."

The conviction in his face makes something warm spark through your chest. Makes you feel _protected_ , like you could rest easy if he's watching your back.

It makes you uncomfortable. Your instincts say you can trust him, if you want to, that he's given you no reason _not_ to trust him, but trust means letting down your guard, means being _vulnerable_ , and you're not about to expose yourself like that to a man you met yesterday.

You roll over and tune him out before he can stir up anything else.

 **XXXX**

Some nights, you don't dream about blood and steel and pain. Some nights you dream about a box, black as shadows and whispers and the dark corners where secrets hide. The box has always scared you—you know, with absolute certainty, that the end of the world is inside.

You've never noticed before, how the box is shaped like a coffin.

"This is it, then, huh?" you ask, voice ringing in the empty expanse of this dreamscape. "This is where I buried you?"

The box, of course, doesn't answer.

You pace, wishing for something in your hands, even though there's nothing here that really constitutes a threat. "So now what? You come back, now that you've been found, come and take over? Is that it?"

There's a sound this time, a steady, ringing pulse coming from the void. It's a song you know, pounding to the beat of your heart. _Survive, survive, survive._ It's the mantra you've built your entire short life around.

"Survive for _what?_ " you scream at the skies. You stalk over to the box, glaring down at the dark, shifting surface. "Survive so you can take over? And then what, I just _disappear?!"_ You lash out, kicking the side of the box. "What about _me?!"_

The second your foot impacts, the thrum in the air rises to deafening heights, and an electric shock travels up your leg, straight to your brain. There are words now, words you don't hear with your ears so much as feel in your chest and the back of your skull.

 _Survive,_ it shouts, thunderous in its intensity, _No matter what, survive._

 _He will come._

 _Nothing will stop him from coming._

 _So you must survive._

You fall to your knees, head in your hands. "Fuck you," you whisper, "and fuck him. I don't need any of this. I was _fine_ on my own."

The noise is back to its previous wordless thrum, barely intelligible except now you know what it really says, and what's so special about Wesley fucking Mitchell that's he's woven into your very being? He didn't seem that great to you.

"This is my life," you mutter into your palms. "I don't need you, and I sure as hell don't need him." You lift your head, glaring at the box once more—and you freeze.

The lid is cracked open.

You resist the (completely rational) urge to scramble back. No one will ever say you're a coward. At least not to your face, and never more than once.

The box just sits there, as innocent as inanimate objects can be, and suddenly you're angry, temper flaring through you. You've survived torture and drugs and gangs. You're not going to be afraid of something inside your own damn head.

"Fine." You put your hands on the edge of the lid, bracing yourself. "Fine, then, let's see what you're made of, Travis Marks."

The lid crashes to the ground with a clatter that cuts off the background noise. For once, everything is completely silent.

You take a breath, clench your jaw, and peer inside.

After a minute, you let out a disbelieving, helpless laugh and run your hand through your hair. "What the hell is this?"

Inside the coffin, rather than a body or whatever else your tortured mind could come up with, is a mirror. A flat, gleaming silver plane reflecting your own face back at you.

So what does this mean? That Travis is as dead as you say he is, and you're all that's left? Or does it mean that you are Travis, just with all the memories and civility stripped away?

Dr. Ryan would have a field day with this.

God, you hate metaphors.

"Now what?" you question, slumping against the side of the box. "What happens next?" Do you just wake up and keep going as you have? Always running, never stopping, never letting your guard down. Never trusting anyone, because everyone you meet could have a blade ready to sink into you back.

Your reflection stares back at you, raising more questions than answers, and the void stays silent around you.

 _Travis. Aren't you tired of running?_

Or you could take a chance, accept what Wes and the others are offering and just…stop. Wouldn't it be nice to stop and rest, just for a little while?

This box has always scared you, right from the start. If the most terrifying thing in the world is _yourself_ , then really, how bad can the rest of it be?

"Alright." You climb to your feet, a gun in your hands like it's always been there. You aim at the gleaming silver mirror. "Here goes nothing."

You pull the trigger, and the dream shatters into a million glimmering shards of thought.

 **XXXX**

You wake with a strangled shout in an unfamiliar room, scrabbling for a weapon that's not under your pillow. Panic constricts your throat, makes your heart race, but before it can overwhelm you completely, you hear a clatter, and a grunt, and a heavy thump like someone falling out of a chair. You glance over, and the adrenaline pauses in stunned disbelief.

Wes leaps up, rumpled and half-asleep. His eyes are wide open, darting around the room without seeing anything, and his hand grasps at his hip for a gun he's not carrying.

"What?" he demands, "What is it?" His eyes meet yours, and you recognize that look—afraid of nightmares that are all the more terrifying because they're real. The way he stares at you, as if you're an oasis mirage in the desert, tells you exactly what his nightmares are about.

He blinks, a little more alert. "Travis? What's wrong?"

You're so stunned all you can do for a minute is gape at him. "Um…n-nothing, I guess." You fidget, awkwardly self-conscious under his scrutiny. "It's all good."

His eyes roam your face, tracing the path of your nightmares on your skin. For a breathless moment, it's just you and him and nothing in the world exists.

The cop in the hall pokes his head inside, startling both of you. "Everything alright in here?"

Wes exhales, hand falling from his side. "Yeah, Officer Simcoe," he says, eyes never leaving yours. "Yeah, we're fine."

After a beat of silence you don't bother to fill, the officer nods. "Right. Goodnight, then." He retreats, pulling the door shut behind him.

Wes runs his hand over his face, breaking the uncomfortably long staring contest. "Are you okay?"

You…are not really sure what the answer to that question is. "What are you doing here, Wes?"

It's deflection, pure and simple, but Wes doesn't seem to notice. "Of course I'm here," he huffs, righting the chair he'd tumbled out of. "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. I assume you have a home somewhere."

"Don't be stupid, Travis." The words are said with annoyed affection, the kind you've only ever heard between family members on TV. But that's not what strikes you speechless. It's your reaction to the name 'Travis'—or rather, your lack of one.

For the first time since you met Wes, being called Travis doesn't feel like ants are crawling over your skin.

Wes misunderstands your silence. "It's alright," he reassures you, shaking out his suit jacket. "Go back to sleep. You're safe here."

Dumbly, all you think to do is say, "Okay," and lie back down. You turn your head, watch him settle back in the chair, draping his jacket over himself like a blanket.

In the ambient light, he looks drawn and haggard, as exhausted as you feel, if a bit more banged up. His jaw is swollen where you punched him, and there's still a rasp in his voice and bruises on his throat from the damage you inflicted.

You don't know what Travis and Wes's relationship was like _before_. All you know is you've put him through hell these past two days and once upon a time you did something so awful he had to pull his gun on you.

After all that, you still don't understand why he's doing this. Don't understand what's so great about _Travis_ that Wes wants him back so badly.

"Wes?"

He doesn't even open his eyes. "Shut up and go to sleep, Travis," he mutters, voice blurred with sleep. " 's okay. I got your back, partner."

There's that feeling again, that warmth that wraps around you like a blanket, promises that you can relax and nothing will stab you in the back when you're not looking.

You think maybe this is what it feels like to be _safe_.

On the chair, Wes's breathing evens out, long and slow. You stare at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of another person in the room. You've never been able to sleep with someone else around, couldn't stand being defenseless around someone you couldn't trust. But Wes…Wes is…

You don't trust him, not completely. But you think you _could_.

" _Travis_ ," you whisper in the silence of the room.

It still doesn't fit quite right, still doesn't feel like it belongs to _you_. But…

Yeah. You think you could get used to it.

 **OOOO**

 **This took forever and a day and ten thousand tears to finish, but I did it and I'm so happy. God, I'm so pleased with this one and I don't even care if no one else likes it because it's something I really wanted to write and it turned out almost just how I imagined it and** _ **I'm so happy**_ **that it's finally done.**

 **Let me know what you thought. Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

 **Until next time~!**


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